Any Time at All
by tall-socks
Summary: The Fab Four are only days into their first North American tour when George starts feeling sick, so it comes as no surprise that he would try and conceal his poor health from the others. But when his illness grows worse and things start spiraling out of control, can his bandmates nurse him back to health without endangering the remainder of the tour? Rated T for language.
1. Part One

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Beatles, Brian Epstein, Neil Aspinall, Mal Evans, or anyone else mentioned or featured in this story. This work of fiction is non-profit and exists only for creative stimulation and my own (and hopefully others') entertainment. **

**Full Synopsis: **

**_The Fab Four are only days into their first North American tour when George starts feeling sick, so it comes as no surprise that he would try and conceal his poor health from the others. But when his illness grows worse and things start spiraling out of control, can his bandmates nurse him back to health without endangering the remainder of the tour? Or will the Beatles be forced to take a break from newfound fame in the name of their lead guitarist's wellbeing? _**

**A/N:**

****This was inspired primarily by Naturelover422's stellar fic, Follow the Sun, which I highly recommend. **I've also posted this particular story to my Wattpad account, so if it looks familiar that would be why. **

**I'm currently writing a novel and a full-length George fic, and so this is little more than a side project of mine and thus will likely not be updated frequently. However, seeing as this is just a one-shot I lost control over, there will be very few parts to post anyway. **

**Please rate and review! Feedback is what inspires me most!**

**Part One**

George had not felt quite right for days.

It started innocently enough, with only a stubborn tickle in his somewhat-sore throat that he had to repeatedly swallow past and a case of the sniffles that could easily be overlooked as a byproduct of the chilly hotel- and dressing-rooms they'd been in and out of all this tour. The symptoms had steadily grown in multitude, however, and one morning he awoke with fierce nausea gripping his stomach and making his head swim.

In George's opinion, waking up in that American hotel room felt rather like how he imagined waking up in Antarctica would feel. Goosebumps had sprung up on the skin of his arms, and his teeth were chattering with the force of his shivers even despite the warmth provided by layers of covers he had wrapped tightly around his body. He had come to understand that America was hot in the summer, but this was a false trail if he'd ever seen one. America was absolutely _freezing_, even in the summer, and he wished desperately that he was back in Liverpool in front of a warm fire.

Months after the Ed Sullivan Show, and it still felt just as cold in New York City as it had when they'd first arrived that February to the sight of countless screaming fans. This, of course, was curious given that it had been winter then and George had been far sicker than he likely was now, but he was not thinking about that so much as he was thinking about how the bloody hell he was going to get warm.

He wasn't sure what time it was, but he could see that Ringo was no longer in the bed next to his, soundly asleep. In fact, the room was empty apart from him, but he could hear voices in the shared living space connecting the twin hotel rooms they'd split between the four of them. He could pick out each of his bandmates' voices, and he realized with a start that he was the only one left sleeping on the morning they were meant to depart for New Jersey.

Still quaking with cold, George begrudgingly threw aside the bed covers and slipped ungracefully onto his feet, which nearly rejected his weight on the first try. He did not fall, however, and was able to make it to the main room on shaky legs with no further incident.

"Look who's awake," announced John with a jesting smile. The rhythm guitarist was seated on the sofa with an acoustic guitar in his lap and Ringo stationed beside him. Paul was in a chair exactly opposite the two, and his brow creased with worry at the sight of George still in his pajamas this late in the morning. "Sleep well, did ye', Geo?"

"Yeah," George agreed, only half-truthful. He'd certainly slept _late, _but that was not exactly synonymous with _well. _He didn't voice this aloud, however. Instead, he asked, "How long 'til we're meant to leave?"

"'bout thirty minutes," reported Ringo. "We were just gettin' ready to wake ye', in fact."

George nodded, heaving a shaky sigh, and then left to get himself changed and presentable for their approaching departure. Luckily, Brian had left the suit George was meant to wear hanging in the shared bathroom, so his allotted dressing time could be spent trying to wrestle his outfit on without fainting rather than rushing about in search of the proper suit to wear.

It took exceedingly longer than usual for George to change—mainly because he had to stop fairly regularly in his endeavor just to breathe properly enough to keep himself conscious and his stomach contents where they belonged—so it was several long minutes before he actually got around to combing his disheveled hair and splashing enough warm water on his color-drained face to create the illusion of a healthy complexion. After an extended period of time, though, he emerged from the bathroom to find his mates talking with Mal Evans (who had supposedly just arrived) and eating breakfast at the kitchenette table. George's stomach rolled uneasily, but he tried to remain blasé in appearance.

"There you are, George," laughed Mal, hopping out of his seat to offer it to the lead guitarist. "Forget how to dress, did you?"

George was probably meant to laugh, but the thought didn't occur to him until it was far too late to do anything about it. His brain felt muddled, somewhat like somebody had filled his head with custard and hadn't the common courtesy to clean it out again.

"All right, Geo?" asked Ringo when George had taken the seat beside him. "Bit slow on the upkeep this mornin'."

"'m fine," George responded, though it was growing increasingly harder to keep a neutral expression on his face in the presence of such pungent food. His stomach lurched every time he managed to breathe through his stuffed nose, and he repeatedly had to swallow down bitter bile with all eyes following his every move.

"Slept in pretty late this mornin', 'e did," John stated jestingly, mouth full of toast and sausage. George almost gagged. "Bit groggy still, I s'pose."

"Yeah," agreed George, trying to breathe past the stubborn itch in his throat, "bit groggy."

Conversation resumed like usual without a moment's hesitation, and George nearly breathed a sigh of relief. He hated being the center of attention on his best day, so having all eyes on him when he wasn't feeling so well was like a nightmare in the flesh. He didn't even want to imagine how bad it'd become if his bandmates and road manager were aware of his worsening nausea or the budding headache he harbored behind his achy eye-sockets.

Time passed at a crawling pace while George stared somewhere beyond the room, and it came to a sudden, screeching halt when the conversation died down enough for Paul to notice George's empty plate and distant look. The former of these was a fairly regular occurrence, except that the plate would usually bear some sign of ever having held food, but the latter was almost as disconcerting as the evidence that George had yet to eat anything at all.

"Sure you're okay, Georgie?" inquired Paul, frowning ridges taking up temporary residence on his forehead. "Ye' 'aven't eaten anything."

This last bit of Paul's statement got everybody's attention, and suddenly George was stuck in the middle of things again. "George Harrison _not _eatin'?!" John exclaimed, faux-incredulous. "The bloody _world_ must be reachin' an end!"

"Very funny," Mal said sarcastically, coming up behind George and startling him with a hand on his shoulder. "Why aren't you eating, George? You hardly ate yesterday either."

His first, most desperate instinct was to shout that he was feeling sick and allow them to coddle him like a child, but he squashed this silly impulse before he could act on it. "Sorry, lads," he laughed sheepishly, searching the table for the least-intimidating bit of food. "Got a bit caught-up in me thoughts, it seems."

Ignoring the obtrusive gazes of his companions, George grabbed the two smallest pieces of toast he could find and disregarded the compulsion to vomit when he bit into the first one. Paul's eyes narrowed suspiciously even as everyone else's returned to their own plates of food, and George offered him the most sincere smile he could manage with his mind focused primarily on swallowing past the roughness of his throat.

Eventually, the bassist let him be, and George was free to choke down the rest of his nausea-inspiring breakfast in relative peace. Only relative, however, because Mal's hand was still heavy and prominent on his shoulder and the presence of that nagging ache behind his eyes had grown more noticeable in the time he'd spent staring over Paul's shoulder and into the depths of space. It was dull, but George was still painfully aware of its origin deep within his skull and it took every ounce of willpower he had not to rub at his stinging eyes.

Eventually, George finished the last of his toast, and his stomach felt almost better for it, which made it very convenient that Brian Epstein waited until that moment to enter the room with the Beatles' head-of-security in tow to declare that it was time to leave.

"Ready to see the great New Jersey, boys?" he asked brightly, nodding for Mal to begin lugging the rest of the things out to the waiting limousine. Brian received three very enthusiastic responses, and didn't care enough to notice the lack of a fourth. "Great," he beamed. "Well, as soon as Mal gets back we'll set out!"

"I want a window seat in the limo," announced Ringo, raising a single hand in the air to ensure he wouldn't be overlooked.

"Do you want the other, Geo?" questioned Paul, more as a test than an actual question. There was a moment of hesitation during which Paul watched his younger mate very carefully, and at length he came to the conclusion that all was definitely not well with the lead guitarist.

"You can have it," George responded though it wasn't much of an answer at all. He hoped that Paul wouldn't notice this, but he also wasn't surprised when it became evident that the bassist had. Thankfully, Paul did not mention it aloud.

The rest of the wait was spent in a silence George didn't realize he craved until it fell upon the room and turned the aching in his head to a lower pain setting. He almost sighed aloud in pure relief, but didn't out of his continuing desire to remain under his mates' radar until such a time as it became necessary to emerge from the figurative shadows.

This respite was rather short lived, though, for Mal was quickly back and Eppy called loudly, "Ready, lads?" and shattered the comforting silence like a glass window. George's head unexpectedly cried out in renewed pain, and he would have whimpered had he not caught his composure just in time.

"Ready," agreed three eager Beatles, and this was enough for Eppy.

The two managers and four band members all rushed into the hallway and strode purposefully toward the elevators that would take them down to the ground floor. George's stomach, while mostly settled by now, lurched in anxiety at the thought of the day ahead and caused the youngest Beatle to trip and nearly smash the illusion he'd pasted up over his suffering. He didn't want to be the weak link, though, and this was enough to keep him acting even with Paul having witnessed his little blunder.

"Okay?" Paul queried, eyes equal parts suspicious and worried for the wellbeing of their youngest.

"Peachy," smiled George. "Just tripped over me feet."

"Quiet Beatle, perhaps, but certainly not the Graceful Beatle," John joked, making all but Paul and George laugh in merriment. George would normally have laughed at a joke (even one at his expense), but there was a gnawing pain in his eyes that made it somewhat difficult to focus on anything around him. This, paired with a stabbing headache that flared up at every sound or light fluctuation, was enough to distance him from his company. "What's wrong with ye', then, McCartney?"

"Hm?" asked Paul, raising a single eyebrow. "What do ye' mean?"

"Gone and spaced out on us, ye' have," provided Ringo. At this point they had arrived at and boarded the elevator, and were on their journey to the ground floor.

"Thinkin' is a crime now, is it?" the bassist asked rhetorically, cracking a smile for the sake of his companions. "Honestly, Lennon, I think ye'd rather benefit from thinkin' once in a while."

"Simmer down, McCartney," John threw back, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm only lookin' after yer wellbein', y'know. Ye were thinkin' so hard I was a bit worried ye'd sprain something, to be perfectly honest."

"Oh, piss off," Paul chuckled, pausing when he spotted George leaning against the wall in the far right corner of the lift. The guitarist had paled dramatically since they'd begun their descent, and his eyes were now held firmly shut as if in an attempt to keep something out. "All right, Georgie? Ye've gone a bit pale there, mate."

"Fine," George called back with very little hesitation. "'m just bloody knackered is all."

"Knackered?" echoed John, half-joking and half-concerned. "Ye' slept later than any of us, Geo. Pretty damn sure ye' went to bed the earliest, too."

"Doesn't mean I can't be tired, John," George replied, not the slightest bit defensive. He'd grown so dizzy in the short time they'd been riding in the elevator that he was almost afraid to lift his heavy eyelids. He felt like even a movement as minor as that would rip consciousness brutally from his weakening grip.

At length, the lift came to a halt and the doors parted to an onslaught of noise that made George's head feel like it'd been skewered with an icepick. Shrieks of glee originated from outside the hotel's front doors and carried through the lobby like angry missiles assaulting the senses of all four Beatles, causing all to cringe in surprise and, for George, in pain.

"Christ," mumbled Lennon, hardly audible above the screaming. "They 'aven't even seen us yet."

George winced at the truth of this statement, and nearly crossed himself before he remembered the many sets of eyes watching him for signs of anything amiss.

"Well, come 'ead, lads," Brian commanded lightheartedly. "Let's go greet your fans."

Many sarcastic replies sprang to the tip of George's tongue, but his common sense prevented him from allowing any to slip past his lips in fear of sounding overly-pessimistic. Instead, he remained silent and trudged after Paul (who was the first in their chain of exiting Beatles) and tried to keep his tender eyes stuck on his mate's moptop rather than the excited girls and guys who'd come out just to catch a glimpse of the four of them. He couldn't really understand why anyone would care enough to simply watch them walk from one door to another, but he was trying not to be ungrateful.

From the moment George passed through the hotel's front doors and the crowd's sound levels increased by a tenfold, every step became increasingly difficult to take. Paul was smiling and waving like he always would and the others were undoubtedly greeting their fans in ways consistent with their media-dubbed personalities, but George couldn't bring himself to do anything apart from carefully placing one foot in front of the other. His head was suddenly screaming for reprieve, and the color in his vision dulled with every step his shaky legs took. He felt weak, like his legs were too small to hold the rest of him, and the toast he'd eaten felt heavy and uneasy in his stomach. In fact, he was suddenly very doubtful that he would make it to the waiting limo unaided and without incident, and he found himself once again in the throes of some childish desire; this time the desire for company.

Surrounded by people or not, George felt very alone all of a sudden, and he probably would've given just about anything in that moment for a friendly face to help him out of this hell. He wished that Pattie was there holding his hand, or that his sister would swoop in to his rescue. She did live in America, didn't she? Was this such a far-fetched desire? He'd even have taken their head-of-security as a substitute had he not been at the back of their exit line. He was feeling desperate.

As if sensing this, though, John soon served as George's hero just through the action of laying a comforting, leaden-weight hand on his younger friend's back. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep George steady and focused enough to trudge the remaining yard or so to the waiting limousine, whereupon he slid in beside Paul and let out an audible gasp of relief.

"Everything all right?" asked the bassist, eyebrows furrowed as his gaze swapped from George to John and back again.

"Absolutely," supplied Lennon, coming to George's rescue for the second time within a matter of minutes. "Did ye' see the bloody crowd, McCartney? Barmy place, America, I'm tellin' ye'…"

Paul did not seem convinced, but he dropped the subject when Ringo hopped in beside John, followed by Mal and Eppy.

"All right, boys!" Brian announced shortly after the limo started on its way. He was beaming. "Let's go over the schedule again, shall we? Now, when we arrive at the New Jersey venue, we'll head straight back to the dressing room. I'd estimate we'll have about a half an hour there before the press conference, which is being held in the venue today, so we won't have to go far. After the press conf—"

He did not have time to finish this thought before John said, "Well, would ye' look at that?" and all eyes turned to follow his gaze and landed upon the form of a newly-sleeping George Harrison, his head rested against the back of the seat. "Guess 'e _was _bloody knackered."

"Should we wake him?" questioned Paul of nobody in particular, the ridges in his forehead deepening with concern.

"No, let 'im sleep," Ringo chimed-in, a faint smile pulling at his features. "Looks right adorable, 'e does. Eppy can always fill 'im in on the plane, can't ye' Eppy?"

"Yes, of course," Brian agreed.

"'Adorable'?" chuckled John, echoing Ringo's statement. "Bloody queers, the lot o' ye'."

"Let 'im sleep," Ringo repeated, ignoring John's jibe at his sexual orientation.

"All right," agreed John, laughing when George's sleeping head tipped over so he was leaning heavily on Paul's shoulder. "Long as yer not worried about McCartney keepin' his hands to himself."

"Very funny, Lennon," Paul scowled, shaking his head gently and peering down at his sleeping mate. "Yer so adamant about lettin' 'im sleep, but he won't be able to fer long with ye' lot gabbing on, will 'e?"

"Ah, shut it, McCartney. Where's yer sense of humor this mornin'?" asked John, flicking some stray bangs away from George's eyes. "Georgie's sleepin' jus' fine. Don't ye' worry yer pretty little head."

"And we're the queer ones," jested Paul, finally cracking a smile though his worried gaze never left George. His sudden ability to sleep through anything was a little disconcerting, Paul thought, but at least he had some sort of color to his face in the form of a soft blush dusting his cheeks and nose. But then, this didn't seem quite right either…

"Leave 'im alone, Paul," someone snapped, and Paul retracted the hand he'd had reaching to check his mate for fever. John was fixing the bassist with a firm stare he'd likely learned from Aunt Mimi, and Paul held up his hand in surrender.

"Sorry," he announced sarcastically, "I'd forgotten that was illegal to care for a friend's wellbein'."

"If ye' care so much fer 'is _wellbein',_" said John, "then how 'bout lettin' the poor lad catch a kip while 'e still can?"

Paul sighed in defeat and slumped back in his seat as best he could with George snoring quietly against his shoulder, a rarity which he could not help but take silent note of. George was not typically a snorer. Sure, this cuddling thing was perfectly in line with his usual sleep behavior, but the snoring was not, and Paul's chest constricted in renewed worry.

The band spent the remainder of the drive chatting quietly amongst themselves and allowing George to catch up on some much-needed sleep. Eppy finished telling them the schedule at some point, but nobody had been listening particularly intently, more out of distraction than disrespect. It wasn't like that mattered much, however, given that the schedule was similar every day, so Brian didn't push the matter.

At long last the limousine came to a stop and Mal exited the vehicle to check that airport security was prepared to handle the overly-exuberant crowd of fans while Brian stayed behind with the band.

"Should we wake 'im now?" inquired Paul, gently nodding towards the still-sleeping form of their youngest member snoring softly into the fabric of Paul's suit jacket. The guitarist's chest heaved with every breath, almost as if the simple act was strenuous, and even John and Ringo had plastered on worried frowns by now.

"Might as well," sighed Ringo, blue eyes filled with compassion. "I doubt Mal will be gone fer long."

John nodded his agreement, and Paul softly gripped George's slender shoulder and shook as lightly as he could manage while still making some sort of impact. When the lead guitarist showed no sign of waking, though, Paul's frown deepened and his grip grew moderately firmer as he shook again, this time successful.

"Blimey," mumbled their youngest groggily, his brown eyes squinted as he searched the perimeter for answers to his next question; "Are we there already?"

"Yep," said Ringo brightly, smiling in contradiction with the worry in his eyes.

George nodded his understanding, but after a moment of distant staring his eyebrows furrowed in blatant confusion and he turned his sheepish gaze to each band member in turn. "Where are we?" he queried, swallowing with a great deal of badly-masked discomfort.

"Airport," reported John, laughing to ease the building tension. "Fer chrissakes, Harrison, you couldn't 'ave been that deeply asleep!"

The guitarist just shrugged by way of a response, and Paul studied the flush in his cheeks with piqued interest. He was fairly certain by this point that their youngest was running a pretty high fever, and was determined to prove it; but just as he was reaching to feel George's forehead for proof, Mal knocked on the window and Eppy said, "Ready, boys?"

Paul was tempted to tell him no, just to have a moment to evaluate George's condition before things got hectic, but he kept his lips firmly shut and followed the other three Beatles out of the limo and past the mob waiting for their arrival. George's pace grew slower in perfect accordance with their dwindling distance from the clear doors of the airport, and Paul sped up his own stride so that he could walk side-by-side with his younger friend, whose face had drained of color in the few seconds they'd been exposed to the screams of fans.

"Almost there, Georgie," said McCartney reassuringly, rubbing George's back for good measure. "Bit hot out 'ere, isn't it?"

It wasn't, though, thought George. In fact, the goosebumps from that morning were back with a vengeance, and he knew that the shivers were not far behind. He only hoped that they could get inside before he turned into a trembling mess again.

"Almost there," repeated Paul, hand steering George toward the glass door separating them from solitude. _Almost there_, the guitarist echoed mentally. _Just a few more steps._

After what could've been hours, the band finally arrived and was able to hide safely inside the airport, away from the greater part of the noise ravaging George's eardrums and worsening the headache that still pounded away within his skull. The shivering had started again, and it was fierce enough that George almost worried he'd be shaken apart.

"All right, Geo?" Ringo inquired as they trailed after Eppy, who was en route to some chairs arranged in a sort of waiting room.

"'m fine," grumbled George, rubbing aggressively at his aching eyes and not caring in the least that his bandmates were staring. _Let them stare_, he thought. He was far too dizzy now to worry what anybody else thought of him. Remaining conscious long enough to board the plane was his primary concern at the moment, so it didn't matter to him that Paul still had a guiding hand on his back or that everyone turned to him first when Epstein offered them a place to sit and wait for him. He just didn't want to faint.

"Where's Eppy gone?" asked George when they were all seated, more out of desire for a distraction than desire for information. He was so, _so_ cold…

There was a pause, and then Ringo spoke while the others stared on in worried disbelief. "He's just said where he's gone, love," said the drummer, eyes sympathetic. "Sure you're feelin' all right, Georgie? You look a bit off-color."

George silently debated whether or not to be honest about his steadily-deteriorating headache or the greying of his vision around the edges, and eventually let out a defeated sigh, violently massaging his forehead. "'m a bit dizzy, actually," he admitted, shutting his eyes to ward off the abusive rays of fluorescent light, "and 've got a bloody 'eadache."

Paul took this as his cue and immediately raised a hand to George's forehead, pushing overlong bangs out of the way for better access.

"Yer runnin' one helluva fever, love," he announced after a moment. "How long've ye' been feelin' ill?"

The lead guitarist opened his eyes just enough to see three worried Beatles gathered around him and let out a deep sigh that presently turned into a series of harsh, grating coughs that had everyone wincing in sympathy.

"All right, Georgie?" asked John after the coughs subsided and left George red-faced and gasping for air. "'ow long ye' been holdin' that in, eh?"

Paul elbowed John in the ribs, and the rhythm guitarist smiled apologetically.

"Been feelin' ill for a few days," reported George in answer to Paul's earlier question. "'m sorry, lads. Thought it was only a cold and didn't want t' cause any problems."

"'s all right, love," fussed Ringo, rubbing George's back adoringly. "We're just worried fer ye' is all. Do ye' feel up t' playin' tonight?"

"We'll understand if ye' don't, Geo," added Paul sympathetically. John nodded to signify that he, too, would not mind if George refused to play, but the lead guitarist would not even consider that an option.

"If I were bleedin' out me eyes I'd still play tonight, fellas," he proclaimed with a hoarse laugh. "Yer not gettin' rid o' me that easy."

John patted George on the shoulder encouragingly, and George smiled despite the pain still mounting in his head and eyes. Suddenly he was feeling queasy all over again, but he didn't want to tell his mates this when they were already worried for his health, nor did he want to admit that the dizziness had anything but abated during their recent exchange. Feeling content enough just to have some fraction of his discomfort known, though, George pulled his feet up onto the chair so that his legs were bent at the knees and closed his eyes in hopes of catching a bit of rest.

These hopes were reality within a matter of minutes when George dropped into an uneasy sleep, and Eppy chose that moment to return from chatting with the woman behind the front desk, his voice resonating and making the three conscious Beatles jump in surprise: "All right, fellas, plane is here. Ready to go?"

The three Beatles exchanged looks of matching concern, but it was finally John who spoke out on behalf of their youngest. "Little Georgie isn't feelin' well, Eppy," he explained, gesturing to the youngest Beatle who was already deeply asleep.

"What's wrong with him?" sighed Brian, clearly unhappy with the turn the day was taking. "Can he play tonight?"

"Said 'e's got a 'eadache, but he wants to play the show still," supplied Ringo, looking at George with a deeply-empathetic expression. "And 'e was feelin' dizzy before."

"And 'e's got a fever," added Paul, shaking his head disapprovingly. "Poor lad."

"How long has he been asleep?" Brian asked.

"Dropped off just as ye' arrived," John replied, fixing Eppy with an odd look. "Yer not goin' t' wake 'im, are ye'?"

"What else can I do?" Epstein sighed again, looking very stressed all of a sudden. "The plane is here, and we have to get to New Jersey!"

"Eppy's right," Paul stepped in. "'e can sleep on the plane."

The rhythm guitarist held up his arms in surrender and Ringo crouched in front of George's chair to shake the young musician awake. "Up and at 'em, Georgie, love," he crooned affectionately, shaking George by the arm. "'s time to go!"

"Hm?" hummed the guitarist, eyes fluttering open until the light hit them and inspired him to shut them again. "Where're we goin'?" He sat up further and allowed his feet to slip from their perch, but he didn't stand or fully open his eyes just yet.

"New Jersey, mate," Paul offered, drawing his eyebrows together in concern. "We're at the airport, remember?"

"Mm, airport," he repeated, nodding his remembrance. His eyes opened fully, then, albeit slowly and carefully, and he stretched the kinks out of his joints before standing up on unstable legs. He swayed, and four pairs of hands shot out to steady him before he held up a hand of his own to stop them. "'ve got it," he assured them, coughing softly.

"All right, then, lads?" Eppy asked, trying to keep an optimistic note in his voice despite the unfortunate decline of George's health. "Come 'ead."

The four lads obeyed, following Epstein with a distinct lack of gusto in the face of newly-grim circumstances. The flush of George's cheeks was an angry red now, standing out in stark contrast against his alabaster skin, and his eyes had grown rather glassy and disoriented to match his unsteady footing. The three healthy Beatles all but surrounded him throughout their quick trek from the waiting area to where the plane was boarding, just to try and ensure that he didn't trip or faint before they could do anything to help alleviate his suffering.

Some fraction of the way to the plane, the group came across Mal, who had not been seen since they entered the airport. "Ah, there you are!" exclaimed Eppy upon seeing the missing member of their little group.

"Had to call ahead to the hotel to make sure they'd be ready for us," explained Mal, taking a quick headcount. "All right, fellas?" he asked.

"Actually, George's ill," said John, standing directly beside the forenamed guitarist.

As expected, Mal heaved a great sigh at the news, but nodded his understanding and shot George a look of sympathy. "I was worried that would be the case," he admitted, "but I've probably got some cold and flu medicine in my carry-on. We can call for a doctor when we reach the hotel."

"Oh, there won't be any need for that," assured George, but his words were slurred and his eyes distant and over-bright. "Bloody plane better be air-conditioned, though. Who knew America could get so fuckin' _hot_?"

All eyes were on the guitarist now, and it had nothing to do with this being the most he'd spoken all day. They had been standing and talking for all of a minute and yet in that time he'd managed to go three shades paler and probably would not have been standing upright had Paul not had a supportive arm wrapped around him.

"Ye' were shiverin' like mad just a couple o' minutes ago," Paul pointed out, stumbling a bit when George's legs started to give out. "C'mon, love, stay with me."

The bassist could not support them both any longer, so he slowly lowered himself and George to the ground, whereupon he turned the young guitarist so that they were facing towards each other. "All right, Georgie?" he asked, pressing an eager hand to George's cheek. He had known that the guitarist's fever was on the rise, but he had not expected for it to get so high so fast. It was utterly disconcerting, to say the least.

"_Gerroff_ me, McCartney," George suddenly shouted, pushing Paul away with weak arms and scrambling to his feet despite how the action drained all the remaining color from his face. Then, this episode ended as abruptly as it had started when George's fever-bright eyes rolled back into his head and his skinny legs gave out beneath him, sending him crumbling. He would even have hit the floor had Mal and John not been near enough to catch him.

"Jesus Christ," swore Paul, hopping to his feet and assisting Mal and John with laying George's dead-weight body on the floor. His skin was practically burning to the touch, and he showed no recognition for what felt like hours, even with Paul and Ringo seated on either side of him and gently tapping his face in turns.

"C'mon, Geo," called Ringo, trying to sound cheerful despite the anxious quiver in his voice. "Wake up, love. We've got a plane to catch."

"Up and at 'em, Geo," called Paul, now jostling the guitarist by the shoulder. "C'mon, Georgie, love, yer scarin' us 'ere."

"We should take him to the hospital," suggested Mal, turning to Eppy with worried eyes. "I can call for an ambulance and cancel the press conference and concert. This isn't right, Brian." Mal was practically pleading, and Epstein sighed heavily.

"No, we'll get him to New Jersey and call for a doctor," Eppy said. It was a very final-sounding command, and so nobody argued.

Finally, after what could have easily been hours, George's eyes flickered open and a soft groan of pain escaped from between his lips, inspiring everyone to breathe a sigh of relief. Then, immediately after they opened, his eyes shut again—this time in discomfort—and he lifted a leaden-feeling arm to shield his gaze from the offensive rays of light attacking his retinas.

"Feelin' all right, Geo?" queried Ringo, eyes still wide with panic. This incident had given them all quite the scare. "Ye' bloody fainted!"

"Did I?" slurred George, voice gruff. "Don't remember that."

"Bloody hell, Harrison," breathed Paul. "Ye' frightened us half t' death!" Relieved or not, everybody was still in a state of mild terror as a result of this incident, so it was no surprise that Paul sounded somewhat hysterical.

"Can you walk?" asked Brian, fixing the lead guitarist with a serious stare.

George scoffed and started to roll his eyes before a rush of pain took over and he had to shut them in order to see straight again. "Course I can bloody walk," he argued, begrudgingly accepting John's assistance in standing.

"Then let's take this discussion to the plane," Epstein instructed. "We're late enough as is."

The boys followed Brain through the airport, all huddled rather close in case of an incident like the previous one, and kept an anxious eye on George at all times. Truthfully, he was growing rather tired of the attention, but he decided to humor his bandmates for the time being and allow himself to be coddled.

The clacking of boots on linoleum sent shivers up George's spine that had nothing to do with his raging fever and he desperately tried to ignore the thudding of his own footsteps echoing in his skull and causing tears to spring unwarranted to his aching eyes. Paul had a protective hand on the guitarist's arm now, and it truly felt like the only thing pinning him down to reality when his headache threatened to rip consciousness from him all over again. It was comforting really, or would have been had George not felt so utterly ill and miserable.

Sometime later the small group had finally reached their place of destine and boarded the plane hurriedly on account of their worsening tardiness. Mal seated Paul and John together, and instructed Ringo to sit with and keep a close eye on their youngest in his ailing state. He then left George with the promise of meds once they were in the air, and departed to find his own seat by Brian.

It was during takeoff, however, that things got really rough. George's head, which had been steadily pounding by the time he was buckled into his seat, was practically imploding only part of the way into their ascent. In addition to the mounting pressure in his head, the lead guitarist's ears had also taken on a very distinct, stabbing sort of pain that made him fear he would go deaf.

At some point, it became stiflingly hot and George felt that he could not breathe. His head and ears insinuated that his skull was caving in and it was bloody fucking _hot, _but there was not a thing that he could do about it.

"George?" fretted Ringo when he noticed the excessive pallor beneath his mate's raging fever-flush. George's eyes had gone wide and they shone with illness and unshed tears, and it appeared that breathing was becoming increasingly difficult for him. "Are you all right, love?"

"Me 'ead," he said in lieu of a response, tears suddenly trailing down his wan face. "Oh, fuckin' 'ell, me bloody 'ead is cavin' in, Rings!"

"No, Geo, it isn't. Yer head looks fine t' me," Ringo said, trying to console the hysterical guitarist. The youngest Beatle looked downright delirious, and he was now cradling his head and sniveling loudly. "'s all right, Georgie."

"_No, _it's fuckin' _not _all right," he argued, lip trembling and hands aggressively rubbing at his temples. Ringo could tell that he was in great pain, and it killed him that there was nothing he could do to help. George was practically sobbing now, sniffling and coughing through his tears with his fingers clawing at his ears and head in anguish.

"Shh, Georgie," Ringo crooned soothingly, hands gripping George's skinny wrists and holding them firmly to stop him from scraping at his skin any longer. "Yer goin' t' be just fine, love. Why don't ye' just sleep fer a bit and we can get ye' somethin' to help yer head once we're in the air?"

"It's goin' to bloody _implode_, Rings!" he argued, voice hushed and croaky. "Fuckin' hurts…"

"'m not goin' t' let it implode, love. Just sleep and we can have ye' right as rain in a little bit." The drummer was growing steadily more doubtful that they could help the lad any this far up in the air, but he was not going to tell him this when he was delirious and frenzied.

George seemed to search Ringo's worried eyes for any sign of untruth, and visibly deflated with a trembling sigh when he allowed himself to find solace in his older mate's words. A few more tears slipped down his face and he sniffled wetly, but eventually his eyelids slid protectively over his feverish eyes and his breathing evened out to signify sleep.

Ringo let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and did nothing to prevent George from unconsciously wrapping himself around the drummer's arm, his head leaned against the older man's shoulder.

When they were finally in the air not too terribly long after this episode, Mal did as promised and rose from his seat to give Harrison any medicine he had that might bring him relief. When he stopped at Ringo's and George's row, however, he found the guitarist snoring softly with his face tear-streaked and his cheeks burning a deeper shade of red than Mal had ever thought possible. Ringo looked up at Mal upon his arrival, and shushed him with a single finger held to his lips.

"We can't wake 'im," said Ringo defiantly, absently brushing some hair out of his mate's eyes.

"We have to," Mal told him. "He needs to take something before we land in New Jersey. We don't want another incident like the one in the airport."

"Well, believe it or not, we've just _'ad _another incident," the drummer contended, feeling fiercely protective of his younger friend. "Poor lad's bloody delirious, Mal!"

Mal breathed out a sigh of either exhaustion or frustration, but Ringo didn't back down. The road manager hadn't just seen what Ringo had; nor had Brian or Paul or John, for that matter, and the drummer was not about to wake George when he'd been in so much pain only a few minutes before. He could take medicine at the hotel, thought Ringo; there was no real reason whatsoever to wake him while they were still in the air.

"Fine," surrendered Evans, packing away the medicine again. "We'll let him sleep, but that just means he's going to have to wait until we're at the hotel to get any relief."

"Trust me," said Ringo, flinching at the recent memory of George crying desperately, "it's best we leave him to his kip."

Mal departed after this cryptic statement and returned to his seat, leaving Ringo with a snoozing George and his own gloomy thoughts.

There was no way George's temperature had risen to such worrisome levels so quickly, which left him with no choice but to conclude that George had been running a fever for far longer than he let on. The guitarist had said he'd been feeling unwell for a few days. Was it possible he'd been so ill for so long and nobody had taken notice? Ringo would like to think not, but then how closely had they really been watching him?

Ringo would likely not even have noticed that their youngest wasn't eating had Paul not pointed it out to them, and this was certainly a sign that something was amiss. The drummer silently vowed then and there with George wheezing quietly against his shoulder, arms wrapped around one of Ringo's, that he would pay far closer attention to their ailing guitarist from then on.

Which, of course, brought him to wonder why it was George was wheezing. Snoring seemed only fitting with the young guitarist as congested as he'd been following his crying spell, but it sounded rather as if the lad was having a great deal of difficulty breathing, and the implications of this were not ones that Ringo would like to consider.

The eldest Beatle almost wanted to wake his ill friend to check that he was all right (or as near as one could get with a high fever and unbearable headache), but thought better of it just as his hand was hovering over the thin shoulder of the ailing boy. He himself had refused to wake the lad only a few brief moments before, and so it would be almost cruel to go through with it as soon as he noticed one thing strange in the slumbering guitarist's appearance.

Concerned, but deciding ultimately that he could wake George when they landed, Ringo settled down for a kip of his own.

_End of Part One_

**A/N:**

**Please remember to rate and review if you've got a mo! **

**Peace and love xoxo**


	2. Part Two

**Disclaimer: If I owned the Beatles, I'd do a lot more with them than write a crappy sick-fic. That being said, I don't own Mal Evans, Neil Aspinall, or Brian Epstein either. This is non-profit and purely for creative expression and entertainment. **

**A/N: Thank you to The Beatles Babydoll22, omgringo, and the guests who reviewed Part One! I hope you will continue to enjoy!**

It seemed like hardly any time had passed at all before the plane landed, but Paul was not necessarily complaining about this hasty lapse of time. His worry for George had done nothing but mount from the moment he'd first caught sight of the guitarist that morning, and it positively skyrocketed during takeoff when his ears latched onto the sound of raised voices that emanated from George's and Ringo's place of rest.

Now that they were on solid ground again, he was beyond eager to find out just what the hell had happened mid-ascent. He had not been able to identify any of what was being said, but he had easily picked up on the urgent tones and could tell that John had too, so he could do nothing else but assume that there had been another decline in George's health.

As soon as they were allowed to unbuckle, Paul was out of his seat and rushing across the aisle with John right behind him.

"What happened?" asked Paul of Ringo, who was awake and groggy-looking with George sleeping against his shoulder. "We 'eard you lot shoutin' durin' takeoff." Paul wished desperately that he had gotten up as soon as they were in the air instead of trusting in Mal to take care of things, for it seemed like George was blushing even more fiercely now than he had been after his fainting spell.

"I'll tell ye' later, but quiet down fer now," urged Ringo, peeling George's arms from where they'd both been wrapped around one of his own. He jostled the guitarist firmly, eyes brimmed with concern, and watched with bated breath as the youngest Beatle flicked open still-glassy eyes and squinted at him and then Paul and John in turn. "All right, George?" he asked.

The young guitarist stirred uncomfortably in his seat and rubbed at the dried tears on his cheeks. "Feel bloody sick," said he, blinking at the rays of sun filtering through the window and grimacing.

"I don't doubt it, mate," said John with surprising gentleness. "Ye've been runnin' one helluva temperature."

"'ave I?" questioned George, massaging the center of his chest with his confused gaze fixed on Paul. "I can't remember anythin'. Where are we?"

"New Jersey, love," Ringo fussed, brushing bangs from the feverish Beatle's forehead and pressing his knuckles against it. "And yer still bloody feverish. We really oughtta get ye' back t' the 'otel."

George nodded his consent, but quickly stopped in the action and held both hands up to his head in agony. "Fuckin' 'ell," he remarked, shutting his eyes. "I really don't feel too well, lads."

"C'mon, Georgie," said Paul, unbuckling the guitarist from his seat and hauling him to his feet. "We'll get ye' to the 'otel and 'ave a doctor come 'round. Ye'll be fine in no time." None of the healthy Beatles were confident that he could keep this promise, but nobody voiced any objection whatsoever out of desire to keep their youngest optimistic in the face of this brutal illness.

The four boys traversed the plane slowly, careful to give George as much time as he needed to get from point A to point B without any sort of incident, and at length met Brian near the door that would carry them into the chaos of Beatlemania.

"Ready lads?" he asked without waiting for an answer. "Mal will be back any moment. Feeling all right, George?"

"Fine," he responded, though this was not true. In reality, he felt like he was going to be sick and could only pray that he'd make it to the hotel before such an occurrence actually took place. "'m eager t' be in out of the sun, though."

Everyone stared.

"What?" he queried when he noticed the many pairs of eyes fixed on him.

"George," said Paul slowly, eyebrows knitted together, "we're indoors."

George froze for a moment before carefully observing his surroundings. "Are we?" he asked, laughing a little only to defuse the cutting tension. "'s so bloody bright in 'ere."

Paul raised a hand to the lead guitarist's forehead for what felt like the millionth time that day and tried to keep his face from portraying the alarm he suddenly harbored. "Bloody 'ell, George. Yer burnin' up!" he exclaimed, making Eppy wince. This whole day was likely putting quite the damper on his ambitious plans for the band.

Nobody had any time to respond, though, for Mal arrived then to announce that they were good to go, and George felt like he might lose his breakfast to the gripping nausea stirring his insides.

"Ready, George?"

There was no time for a response. Somebody led him out by the arm, but he was not fully aware of what has happening. He felt suddenly very detached from reality and he could not even identify who was coaxing him out of the plane and into the eye of the storm where a thousand screams assaulted his ears like bullets and nearly made him stumble in blind pain.

He _really_ was not feeling so well. Suddenly, the past several days in the throes of an illness he'd slipped to the back-burner felt like a stroll through a well-kempt garden, and he was really sure that he was going to vomit or faint or otherwise make a fool of himself in front of all of these people.

Somebody had a hand on his back and was steering him towards the waiting limo but he didn't know who it was. He couldn't bear to turn his head just the slightest bit in fear of worsening the swelling nausea and dizziness that plagued him and every step was sending shocks of pain through his skull like repeated strikes of lighting. But then suddenly, the limousine had grown closer. The steps he had yet to take diminished into single digits and he was _so close _to respite that he could almost feel the calm already.

And then, he was there.

He slipped through the open limo door, followed by a few other figures, and then the shrieks were muted when the door shut again and inspired a weighty sigh of relief that quickly had him bent over in the throes of a coughing fit.

His eyes watered and his chest ached with every harsh cough that tore its way through his raw throat. Before long, he had a steady stream of tears running down either cheek and was using the hand not covering his mouth to massage his chest despite how little it did to alleviate the pangs each outbreath sent through him like electric shocks.

He could not see who was seated beside him through his tears, but whoever it was had a hand rubbing his back and was rattling off demands which made little sense but sounded very, very serious.

"Eppy, we really should take 'im t' the 'ospital," said the voice, loud and painful to George's sensitive ears. "Poor lad can 'ardly breathe without coughing 'imself to near death!"

_Near death. _George grimaced and tried to breathe normally, if just to prove this voice wrong. It did not work especially well, though. The coughing did cease, but every inhalation made his chest cry out in an agony that felt rather like being speared through the lungs.

"'m 'kay, John," said George, holding up a hand but not opening his teary eyes.

"Georgie," came the voice again, "I'm Paul, not John."

That got him to crack his eyes open just enough to match a face to the previous-disembodied voice, but he was met with too many worried expressions to focus on just one. Why was it so bloody _hot _in America?

George thought the limousine was moving, but he couldn't be sure. The hand was still on his back even though he was no longer coughing, and voices were speaking though he could not bring himself to listen to them. Everything was so loud and he was so hot and tired and nauseous.

"Geo," said somebody, voice raised. He winced, but looked to face the person—Paul—anyway. "'ow're ye' feelin', mate?"

"'m bloody sick to me stomach," rasped George, too dizzy to manage anything else. Of all of his symptoms, that was the most prominent, and so he felt it important to mention it.

"Do ye' want t' go to the 'ospital, Georgie?" asked Ringo from somewhere beyond Paul. He could not tell in what order the other three sat: he only knew that he was by the far left window.

"Is the doctor not comin'?" he questioned in response.

"No, no," came Epstein's voice, "we can definitely get a doctor to the hotel. The others are concerned that you need more immediate care."

"Nah," said George. "'otel is immediate enough fer me, I'd say." He was slipping in and out of reality. He was not even fully certain that he verbalized this reply.

"There you have it," stated Eppy. "We'll be at the hotel shortly."

"Lad's bloody delirious, Brian," exclaimed Paul, noticing that George was looking particularly dazed again. "And Ringo 'ere 'as insinuated that there was another incident on the plane!"

All eyes turned to the drummer. "What kind of incident?" asked Epstein. "He didn't faint again…?"

"No," Ringo assured them. "But… 'e wasright confused, that's fer sure."

"Fer chrissakes, Ritchie, what 'appened?" demanded John. The rhythm guitarist had been rather quiet up until that point, keeping a careful eye on their youngest as best he could from the opposite end of the limousine bench seat.

"Well, during takeoff, I guess the increase in pressure was 'urtin' 'is ears and 'ead or somethin', 'cause the poor bloke started goin' on about 'is skull cavin' in…" The eldest Beatle shuddered at the memory. "'e was really confused, though. Bloody cryin' and clawin' at 'is ears. It was 'orrible."

"'e was _cryin'_?" shouted Paul before being shushed by Ringo. Somehow, George had managed to drop off again, his cheek pressed against the window. "Bloody 'ell."

"I'll call a doctor as soon as we reach the hotel," Mal announced to nobody in particular.

"Ye' better," growled Paul, absently feeling George's cheek in fear that his fever could somehow rise dramatically in a matter of minutes, "'cause if ye' don't, I swear I'll carry the lad t' the 'ospital meself!"

With this threat hanging suspended in the weighty silence, the limo traveled the rest of the way to the hotel with no further comments on the matter of George's health.

The vehicle pulled to a slow stop in front of the grand building, and the lead guitarist did not need to be shaken awake. It seemed that the shrieks of fans did that job for the rest of the band, startling George into a dizzy state of wakefulness with eyes bright and hand absently rubbing at the center of his chest.

As usual, Mal departed first to check the state of security, but this time George gasped very suddenly when the door opened and shut.

"All right there, Geo?" asked Paul, gripping the guitarist's scrawny shoulder.

"Me fuckin' 'ead," was George's croaky reply. "It bloody 'urts."

Paul patted the boy's shoulder encouragingly, trying to sound cheerful when he assured him, "We'll 'ave ye' seen by a doctor shortly, Georgie, don't ye' worry."

"'m not worried," the guitarist rasped, "'m just feelin' fuckin' ill."

This was quite the understatement. George had been feeling nauseous nearly all day, but since waking just a minute before it had increased a tenfold and he was quickly losing all confidence in his ability to hold down his meager stomach contents. He was only glad that he had, for the most part, avoided eating these past few days. At least he didn't have much to bring up.

Mal tapped the window to signal that it was time to go, and the simple noise made George's head pound harder than it had all day. Eppy slipped out of the vehicle first, and then three healthy Beatles and George.

He was feeling very weak again. He had been half certain that he would not be able to stand, but his feet accepted his weight and he was quickly following behind Paul with a hammering head and uneasy stomach to match the gnawing dizziness that negatively affected his vision. There were so many faces surrounding them, jumping and shrieking and fainting and being generally lively, and it was making George nervous. His chances of making it to the hotel were seeming slimmer by the minute, his legs threatening to give out, but by some miracle he managed to pass through the doors directly behind Paul and follow the group through the empty lobby.

Eppy stopped, doing a quick head-count, and then nodded for Mal to continue to the lifts, his eyes lingering on George for a minute. The road manager obeyed this silent command, and the group started on their way and grew that much closer to the silent comfort of a strange, American hotel room, Mal Evans at the front of the line and George serving as the caboose.

They boarded the elevator and started on their way upwards, growing progressively nearer to reprieve while George's stomach grew progressively more restless.

By the time they reached their floor, the youngest was so sick to his stomach that he did not think he would make it to the room without vomiting. Nausea positively ravaged his insides, tossing and stirring and making it difficult to even walk properly with the abdominal pain threatening to make him lose his footing altogether and send him crumbling to the carpeted hallway floor.

"George?" queried Ringo, who noticed the guitarist lagging behind. "Everythin' all right?"

George shook his head aggressively in response, but nearly went tumbling over for it. He was so, so dizzy…

"What's the matter, love?" asked Paul, falling into step with the young musician and wrapping an arm around him supportively. "Is it yer 'ead again?"

Again, the guitarist shook his head to signify the negative, finally stopping his steps altogether in an attempt to regulate his own breathing. Paul used a hand on his upper back to urge him forward, though, and he reluctantly utilized the bassist's assistance in catching up to the rest of the group, who were then several paces ahead.

At length they reached the door of their hotel room, and not a minute sooner than was necessary to avoid disaster. By the time Mal had the door unlocked and had ushered the Fab Four in, George's face had lost all color and his bottom lip was trembling with shocking ferocity.

"George?" Paul asked, watching the lad carefully scan the room. "C'mon, love, what's botherin' ye'?"

George did not answer, for he was much too preoccupied with stumbling entirely-gracelessly into the located washroom with the other three Beatles and two managers right behind him. Ringo was the first to reach the scene and he immediately crouched down beside where George was heaving up his breakfast into the commode, back arching and face sweating profusely as his stomach spasmed and rejected its contents. Ringo's heart twisted in empathy.

Brian exhaled deeply and left the three Beatles to care for their ailing friend while Mal departed to call for a doctor, his footsteps heavy with concern. Meanwhile, Ringo gently tugged off George's suit jacket for him and tossed it onto the counter while Paul wet a washcloth with which to bathe the guitarist's fever-warm face. As the two musicians were doing this, John sat rubbing the sick Beatle's back in a show of comfort, flinching in sympathy with each retch that echoed off the walls of the large bathroom.

"It'll pass, mate," John consoled, feeling inadequate. None of them knew exactly what they were meant to do. They could only think to try to ease George's suffering while they waited for the doctor to arrive.

It took quite a while, but eventually the dry heaving stopped and George was left panting over the toilet bowl with Paul, John, and Ringo doing what they could to comfort him. Paul still had the cold cloth pressed against the guitarist's forehead, and Ringo had taken to pushing George's long hair out of his sweaty face for him while John continued rubbing the lead guitarist's bony back.

"All right now, Georgie?" asked John once George flushed the toilet and sat back on the tiled floor.

"Yeah," gasped the lead guitarist, his palm pressed against his ribcage. "Oh, God."

"Come 'ead, then, love," sang Paul, helping John tug George to his feet. The rhythm guitarist and bassist then helped the young Beatle to the sofa, each with an arm around him, and Ringo laid a new cold compress on his forehead. "Why don't ye' rest while we wait fer the doctor?"

"Okay," agreed George, eyes already closed against the bright hotel lighting. "Thank you, lads. 'm sorry 'm such a burden…"

"Ye' could never be a burden, love," said Ringo, laying a reassuring hand on George's head. "We're 'appy t' help. We only wish there was more we could do."

George wasn't sure that Ringo could speak for all of them, but he still found solace in his mate's words and soon dropped into a fitful sleep with the three remaining Beatles watching on in despair.

"Poor bloke," sighed Paul after a few moments of weighty silence. "Really do wish there was more we could do."

"Mal's gone to call fer the doctor," reminded Ringo gently. "'e'll certainly be able to 'elp some, eh?"

"I s'pose," granted Paul. "But this doesn't seem like any old flu t' me." They were all growing more and more anxious by the minute, and Paul was certainly not the first to have this disturbing thought. "Seems a bit severe for that, y'know."

"Ye' 'ave to remember, the lad's been sufferin' in silence fer days," John said. "Gone an' made himself worse, 'e 'as.

Suddenly angry about nothing and everything, the bassist fixed John with a cold stare. "What, an' yer a doctor now, are ye'?" asked Paul testily.

Ringo rubbed Paul's back. "Calm down, will ye', Paulie," offered the drummer. "We can't 'elp George any by fightin' amongst ourselves. Lad's tense enough about things as is!"

"Right," agreed Paul with a sigh. "Sorry, Lennon. This day's just put me on me last nerve."

"We're all worried about 'im, Paul," John replied. "No reason to get hyper about it."

"Doctor'll be 'round any minute, 'm sure," interjected Ringo. "Everythin' is goin' t' be fine…" The words came easily to Ringo's tongue, but by this point in time nobody could bring themselves to believe them.

As promised, the doctor arrived some time later, and Epstein gladly invited him in while the Beatles roused their ailing member.

"Wha's goin' on?" queried George upon being woken, brown eyes blinking sleepily at the three musicians in turn.

"A doctor's come t' 'ave a look at ye', Georgie," said Ringo, removing the compress from earlier from George's still-hot forehead.

George blinked, confused, and then nodded gently when he remembered their situation. "Oh, all right, then." He rubbed at his eyes irritably, and furrowed his eyebrows when the doctor crouched down to his level.

The man introduced himself as Dr. Skidmore and carefully explained each procedure before he performed it, even though the first part of the checkup mostly consisted of George having lights shined in his eyes, ears, and mouth. He tried to behave himself, though, primarily because he really didn't feel up to being lectured on his manners.

"How long have you been feeling under the weather, Mr. Harrison?" inquired the doctor after he was finished with the bright lights.

"Err," George struggled to recall for a moment. "I guess it started in Vancouver?" he offered.

"_Vancouver_?" exclaimed Paul. "Ye' told us ye'd been feeling ill for _days_, not a _week_!"

George did not know what he was meant to say in response, so he merely shrugged and tried to look apologetic. "I didn't think it mattered," he said bashfully. "Jus' thought I was gettin' a cold, t' be perfectly honest."

The doctor nodded his understanding. "And what are your symptoms?"

George scrunched up his nose, sniffling wetly. "Me 'ead 'urts somethin' awful," confessed the lead guitarist, "and 've been feelin' dizzy all bloody day…"

"'e fainted earlier," added John. "An' 'e was throwin' up shortly before ye' arrived."

"He hasn't been eating either," said Mal. "He's had no appetite. And he's also been coughing quite a bit today."

"An' 'e's been runnin' a fever all day," Paul announced.

"An' 'is ears were 'urtin' 'im earlier," said Ringo. "Pretty sure 'e's been 'alf delirious, as well…"

Dr. Skidmore nodded slightly, and then turned to look at George very carefully. "Anything else you'd like to add?" offered the doctor. The guitarist had not been given much of a chance to explain his symptoms for himself, but this almost better suited him for he did not much like talking about trivial things on a good day, never mind when it hurt to raise his voice above a hoarse whisper.

"Me throat 'urts too," croaked George. "An' me chest."

The doctor frowned very deeply, but nodded his understanding and pulled out a thermometer which he placed under George's tongue before yanking out a stethoscope. Dr. Skidmore then pressed the metal of the stethoscope to George's back and told him to breathe in very deeply (through his nose, so as not to disturb the thermometer in his mouth).

A few moments passed in virtual silence while the doctor listened very closely to what George took to be his lungs, and then, after pressing the object to George's chest for a short minute, the man finally put away the stethoscope and rummaged through his bag.

It grew too silent. The urge to cough threatened to overwhelm George, but there was an intrusive object beneath his tongue and many sets of eyes watching him for any sign of a decline. He felt like a caged animal, or like a specimen under a microscope, and he wished desperately that somebody would look away to allow him just a morsel of privacy. But then, after what felt to George like an eternity, the doctor removed the thermometer from his mouth and shook his head gently at the result, and everyone's attention abandoned him and turned to Dr. Skidmore.

"I'm not surprised he's been half delirious," he announced. "His temperature's at 103.8."

"Is that high?" asked Ringo, unable to remember anything of Fahrenheit that he learned in school.

Dr. Skidmore showed the hint of a smile, and responded with a gentle, "yes."

He cleaned and put away the thermometer and then rummaged through his bag again. "Under regular circumstances," he said, holding up a small pill bottle, "I would recommend a hospital, just because they would be able to bring his temperature down much more quickly than I can." Everyone held their breath. "But, given that this only a last-resort option for a Beatle, I'm going to give him something that should help." He handed George a pill and sent Ringo for a glass of water, and then turned to Mal. "You said he hasn't been eating?"

"Yes," confirmed Mal. "Or, not very well, anyway." Ringo returned with George's water and watched as the guitarist swallowed down his medicine.

"That would likely explain the fainting," proclaimed the doctor. "Lack of proper nourishment and dehydration. A good meal and plenty of fluids should sort it out."

"But what about the rest of it?" demanded John, arms crossed defiantly. "Ye' 'aven't said what it is 'e's got."

"Ah," agreed the doctor, "and that's because I need to have a word with the manager in private." He looked at Brian, and then added, "If you will."

"Of course," said Eppy, leading the way into the corridor while the others looked on in frustration.

Once in private, Dr. Skidmore began: "It seems to me that Mr. Harrison is likely just suffering a particularly bad case of the flu." Brian sighed, relieved. "But," the doctor started, "it is not uncommon for illnesses such as colds or the flu to develop into something worse after being ignored for as long as this case has been."

"What are you saying?" questioned Brian.

"I'm saying that it will be exceedingly easy for Mr. Harrison's illness to grow worse if he is not provided with proper rest and nourishment. And that's if it hasn't progressed already."

"You think he could already have something worse?" Brian asked, incredulous. The doctor nodded grimly. "Well, what can we do?"

"If I were in your shoes, Mr. Epstein," said the doctor, "I would take Mr. Harrison to the hospital, just to be on the safe side. It is, of course, quite likely that he's only got the flu at this point in time, but even if this is the case, it may not stay this way for long if his illness continues to go on disregarded."

"Does he _need _to be taken to the hospital?" asked Brian, and the doctor sighed very deeply.

"No," he said. "But I highly encourage that he be admitted, even if not right away."

Eppy took a few moments to ponder all of this new information, and then finally nodded his understanding. "Is there anything he can take to ensure that he'll be able to play tonight?"

"I'll write a prescription," replied the doctor, and two minutes later he was on his way and Brian was reentering the hotel room to the sight of many concerned expressions and one sleeping George Harrison.

"Well?" asked Paul. "What'd 'e say?"

"Just a bad case of the flu," announced Brian, trying to appear chipper. "He's given him a prescription so he can play tonight."

Everyone was quick to voice their relief, and Mal set out immediately to get the prescription filled for when George awoke. The guitarist had nodded off only a few minutes after Brian and Dr. Skidmore exited the room, and Paul had been sitting dutifully by him all the time.

"An' e's _sure_, is 'e?" inquired Paul. Eppy fixed him with a look. "It's just, I've never seen a flu like this before. Kid's been off 'is 'ead practically all day."

"The doctor said it's the flu, Paul," Brian reminded the bassist firmly. "And seeing as he's the only among us who has a degree in medicine, I'm inclined to believe him." Paul snorted indignantly. "And he _did _say it was a _bad _case. George's been ignoring the illness all week."

"I still think we oughtta call off the show and press conference and shite, Eppy," suggested John, crossing the room to sit beside Paul. "The lad needs t' rest. 'e's bloody ill and exhausted."

"I _know _he's ill and exhausted, Lennon, but we can't cancel on such short notice." Brian ran a frustrated hand through his trim hair. "If he shows no signs of improving by later tonight, we can consider canceling tomorrow's events; but for today, we simply can't afford to let so many people down."

"But Eppy—"

"_No, _Paul," Epstein annunciated. "I'm sorry—I really, _really_ am—but he'll just have to rest whenever he can. Even if that means napping on the sofa."

They didn't like it, but the three conscious Beatles felt that they could argue no more, and so they kept quiet. Even though they could not continue the dispute, though, they all silently vowed to keep a steady eye on their ailing member all the time, just in case of the sudden deterioration of his already-poor health. They were not going to let George's illness go ignored further; not as long as they were able to do something about it.

George was awoken to take his prescription when Mal returned from the drug store, but immediately fell asleep again and did not wake until he was forced to get ready for the press conference. Paul was the one to shake him back to the conscious world when the time finally came, and he did not allow himself to overlook any detail of George's sallow face and dull eyes.

The guitarist was a sickly pale color, but the flush in his cheeks had mostly dissipated and his eyes were no longer bright and frenzied. As good a sign as this was, however, Paul could not feel overly ecstatic to see the dismal, half-dead creature that replaced his younger mate as soon as the element of feverish life was sapped from his body with the declination of his temperature. In fact, the moment George's sleepy eyes blinked up at him emotionlessly, the bassist felt his heart ache in sympathy.

George looked very confused, but not as he had when his harsh fever was ravaging his body like lively wolves. Instead, he looked like he had just woken from hibernation, and it was obvious that this was just how he felt.

"Uhh," George uttered, looking bashful as his eyes traced the room for some hint of anything recognizable. Unfortunately, the only things even remotely familiar were the faces of his concerned friends gathered around to watch him like some spectacle. He hadn't more than a foggy recollection of most of the day's events, but he had to assume that something bad had happened.

"Poor bastard's prolly bloody confused," John surmised, saying aloud what the other Beatles were too shy to. "What's the last thing ye' remember, Georgie boy?"

"I remember leavin' fer the airport," said George, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. Everything since then felt dreamlike in his mind, as if he may have made the entire thing up. "After that it's all sort of fuzzy, t' be perfectly honest." He paused. "Are we in New Jersey, then?"

"That's right," nodded Paul, not feeling encouraged by this deduction. "We're leavin' fer the press conference in just a little while."

"Was someone else 'ere?" George asked, searching the room as if it could give him the answers. "Earlier, I mean. Was there a man 'ere or 'ave I gone and dreamt that?"

"There was a doctor 'ere earlier, George," said Ringo, crouched next to the sofa. "Yer sick."

"Is it bad?" questioned George.

John was perched on the arm of the sofa, just beside where Paul was sitting with George close to his left shoulder. "Ye've got the flu somethin' awful, laddie," said John. "Doctor's got ye' on about a hundred drugs. Ye' woke t' take 'em just a little bit ago."

"I remember," said the guitarist. "The flu?"

"That's what the doctor said," Paul affirmed, still not trusting the diagnosis fully. He wondered what the chances were of convincing George to sit this show out.

The youngest Beatle didn't respond to this, for he was too busy trying to process all of this new information in his muddled brain. The pain in both his ears and head had decreased in his sleep, but they were still noticeably present. On the positive side, at least the nausea was gone. He winced in remembrance, glad that his vomiting spell was one of the memories he couldn't pin down as being 100% real.

"So how're ye' feelin' now, Georgie?" asked Paul, not minding the overbearing tone his voice had picked up. He was right concerned about his friend and he refused to feel bad about that. "Yer fever's gone down—that much is fer certain—but how do ye' feel pain-wise?"

"Me 'ead an' ears are hurtin' a bit," he said. "Me bloody throat's killin' me. But apart from that I'm not feelin' too terrible."

"Do ye' still want t' do the show tonight?" Paul inquired, fixing George with a serious stare.

"Course I want t' do the show, ya sod," laughed George, trying his best to stifle the coughs that then tore through his throat and chest like spears. "The day I stop playin' gigs because 'm ill is the day ye' oughtta bury me."

No one laughed because none of them even felt like joking about such a matter at the moment, but Paul didn't dissuade George from making this decision and even offered to help him clean up before the press conference. Of course, George would not hear of it—"I can walk t' the bloody washroom without faintin', McCartney"—but the offer was silently appreciated.

While George was in the bathroom getting ready, the other three Beatles approached Eppy.

"What'd ye' tell the press about George?" asked John. None of the Beatles particularly wanted George to take part in any of the day's activities, but seeing as he was adamant about playing the concert they wanted at least to see what they could do about getting him out of the press conference.

"Neil's just told them that he's ill," Brian reported, cradling a phone between his ear and shoulder, supposedly on hold. "He hasn't released any details yet."

"Who are ye' on hold with?" Paul demanded, just a bit too harshly. George was like a little brother to him, and this whole ordeal was making him increasingly edgy.

"Neil," said Eppy. "He's just gone to get an update on the state of security."

"Good," said Paul. "'ave the bloke tell the press that Georgie won't be at the conference. The lad's just too sick, whether or not 'e'll admit it."

The other two Beatles nodded in agreement. "We want 'im out of this, Eppy," John argued. "Neil or Mal can stay with 'im in the dressin' room so 'e doesn't 'ave t' be left alone, but 'e should be gettin' as much rest as 'e can before the show tonight."

"Sorry, lads, but—" Epstein held up a finger to signify that Aspinall had picked up the other end again. "Hang on, Neil," he said into the receiver. "I'm very sorry, lads, but the press were promised all four Beatles. He can leave early if he really needs to, but he _h_as to be there." Brian carried on talking into the phone, then, and the matter was closed.

Ringo, Paul, and John returned to the sofa to wait for their ailing bandmate with heavy hearts and occupied minds. None of them felt right about anything that had happened that day, and things were only looking bleaker as the hours wore on and the press conference and show grew nearer.

George emerged from the bathroom shortly thereafter with his jacket on and his hair combed, looking considerably paler than he had when they'd last seen him minutes before.

"All right, George, love?" asked Ringo, standing to offer the guitarist his seat. George, who would normally have insisted Ringo stay seated, gratefully accepted the vacant spot on the sofa and dropped heavily into the seat as if his legs had grown weak in the time he'd been getting ready.

"'m fine," replied George, eyes closing of their own accord. He rested his forehead in his hand, elbow propped on the armrest, and massaged his temples absently. "'m bloody tired though."

"Mal's just gone ahead to check on security," said Brian, apparently having finished his phone call. "You'll be able to sleep on the drive over, and again before the show. Neil's even gone out to fetch some food for you lads, for after the press conference."

George, while no longer nauseous, was no longer feeling particularly hungry, so he was still not as joyful as he normally would have been to hear this news. If there was one sure sign that George Harrison was not feeling well, it was a loss of appetite. Paul was only grateful that the doctor had ordered that the guitarist be fed, for he feared that George would not eat otherwise.

Mal returned just then and Brian cheerfully led the way out of the room and into the corridor they'd traversed earlier that same afternoon. The elevator seemed closer to their room now than it had earlier when George was too nauseous to function properly, but it still seemed to be a good mile away with his legs as shaky and weak as they were.

At some point during their trek, George's breathing grew heavy and difficult and his chest positively burned with every inhalation. Something about this didn't seem quite right to him, but he was in no hurry to concern the others more than he already had that seemingly-endless day so he stayed quiet about the matter.

The elevator loomed, and George could almost have shouted for joy had it not been for the rawness of his throat which prevented him from exerting his voice any more than was needed to speak in a hushed, croaky tone. To his right, Paul was frowning and casting worried glances at him out of the corner of his brown eyes, and George did his best to look encouraging despite the strain it put on his meager physical resources. In truth, he was growing very tired of masking any fraction of his pain, but he didn't want to cause any more trouble for his friends than he already had. They were already so scared for him; why would he knowingly add to their fear?

"Sure yer all right, Georgie?" asked Paul, his forehead ridges growing deeper with each passing moment that George labored for breath.

"'m stellar, McCartney," the guitarist replied, smiling falsely and trying to mask the fact that each breath was becoming increasingly harder to force into his hurting lungs. "Me 'ead's actually not hurtin' as badly as it was earlier. I think maybe that medication is kickin' in."

"Glad to 'ear it, Harrison," beamed John, smacking George on the back as if this was some big accomplishment. He knew that the ill Beatle was probably lying, but he liked to think that some part of that lie was based off of reality. Maybe George really would be feeling well enough to play tonight. Maybe it really _was_ just a bad case of the flu.

As they boarded the elevator, Paul eyed Harrison in suspicion and grimaced to see his chest heave with each inhalation. "Perhaps ye' shouldn't sing tonight, Geo," suggested the bassist, resting his hand at the base of George's warm neck as the elevator began its descent. "Ye' seem t' be havin' a bit o' trouble breathin' there. 'm sure we could come up with a setlist that'll prevent ye' from straining' yerself too much."

"McCartney's got a point, Georgie boy," agreed John. "Ye' oughtta be takin' it easy."

"I'll think about it," wheezed George, fingertips pressed against his chest in discomfort. He didn't really want to sing, but he also didn't want his mates to think that he was weak for playing a half-assed show. But then, he _was_ having quite a bit of trouble breathing…

The elevator doors parted, but George was ready for the screams that bit angrily at his ears with cumulative fervor as they drew closer and closer to the waiting Beatlemaniacs. Brian led the group and George wedged himself between Ringo and John in the line of traveling Beatles, Mal following behind closely. The lead guitarist was not afraid of fainting or vomiting this time around, and so the trip from the doors to the limo went much smoother than any of their other trips that day, for which everyone was thankful.

By the time they reached the limousine, however, he was half-gasping for air and his chest felt like it was on fire. Paul was peering around Ringo to see that George was okay, panting audibly as he was, and he was disappointed to see that the youngest Beatle was pale as could be and struggling against the beginnings of a coughing fit.

George shut his eyes against the pain in his chest and throat as coughs once again ripped through him and made him go red in the face. He was angry with himself for ignoring this damned illness and allowing it to take him over to fully, but he also knew that there was no way to change the past. All he could really do was attempt to do better in the future, but even that was proving more difficult than he'd anticipated, what with the many people relying on him to soldier through. They were counting on him, and yet here he was, nearly taken down by the goddamned flu.

He could've cried just out of frustration were it not for the many worried faces watching on helplessly. But then, the limousine was moving now and George felt himself being lulled to sleep by its motion once the coughs had left him be. Within a few minutes, in fact, the guitarist was asleep for the umpteenth time that day, and the others breathed a sigh of relief.

"Can't believe he's goin' through with the concert," mused Ringo, shaking his head in disapproval and pulling George's bangs out of his eyes. The guitarist had his head leaned against the back of the seat and he would have looked peaceful had his chest not heaved dramatically with every breath.

"He won't if I've got anythin' t' say about," grumbled Paul. "'e's just bein' stubborn, 'e is. Bloke's too ill to perform and 'e knows it, but 'e's too fuckin' stubborn t' admit it."

"Don't be so hard on 'im, Paul," advised Ringo, blue eyes shining with compassion and concern. "e's under an awful lot of stress. If anythin' 'e's just worried about lettin' everyone down. There's a lot of pressure on us all, an' 'e's practically a kid!"

The truth was that George was only just a year younger than Paul, but the gap between them still seemed immense. It was easy for the three older Beatles to forget that George was an adult as well, and so they were all guilty of making him feel inferior—just out of habit—even though he was just as mature as the rest of them, if not more at times. No matter how old they got, George would always be the baby, and so the guitarist's attempts at putting on a brave face could be easily overlooked as simple foolishness.

"I bloody well know 'e's under a lot of stress, Rings," contended Paul. John was typically the most tenacious Beatle, but when a matter concerned George, Paul was quick to argue with all opposing opinions. George had been like a younger brother to the bassist for so long that, over time, he'd begun to think only he knew what was best for the lad. "Which is all the more reason fer 'im t' be takin' it easy! You bloody see how ill 'e is! Ye' can't tell me ye' think it's a good idea fer 'im to be performing a fuckin' concert!"

"No one thinks it's a good idea, McCartney," John intervened. "We can all agree it's a bloody _stupid _idea," That bit was mostly aimed at Eppy and Mal, "but it's not little George's fault 'e's got a so many people relyin' on 'im, is it?"

"Fuck the bloody people _relyin' _on 'im," Paul half-shouted. "George is ill and 'e oughtta be lookin' out fer 'imself better."

"'e probably oughtta be, but that doesn't change anythin', ya sod!" replied John, growing frustrated. Everyone was truly on their last nerve. "Look 'ere, McCartney; me and Ringo both agree with ye' that George shouldn't play the bloody show, but it isn't up to us, is it? Georgie's the one who gets to make the final call and ye' can't keep gettin' angry at 'im fer tryin' to please everyone."

Paul sighed heavily, burying his face in his hand and shaking his head slowly. "'m sorry, lads," he admitted at length. "Yer both right. I can't take all me frustration out on George. 'e's got enough on 'is plate already."

Ringo and John were quick to forgive, and the limousine soon fell quiet apart from the sound of George's wheezy snoring. From there, the rest of the drive was spent in this fashion, and the ailing lead guitarist slept right on through it

**A/N:**

**Thank you so much for reading! Please leave me a review if you have the time, and have a wonderful day!**


	3. Part Three

**Disclaimer: If I owned the Beatles, I'd do a lot more with them than write a crappy sick-fic. That being said, I don't own Mal Evans, Neil Aspinall, or Brian Epstein either. This is non-profit and purely for creative expression and entertainment.**

**A/N: I'd like to start off by thanking omgringo, Mia, and the guests who reviewed Part Two, as well as all those I thanked in the previous chapter's Author's Notes. Without your support, I could not even hope to continue this story. You amazing followers, favoriters, and reviewers are my primary motivation, and for that I cannot thank you enough.**

**Additionally, I'd like to apologize for the delay in posting and also for the briefness of this update. I've just started recovering from a rather debilitating rash of illnesses that rendered me virtually useless in the writing department for a few weeks, but I am back on the wagon and very excited to finish this story, hopefully with a renewed empathy for what George is experiencing as a result of my own recent health issues. As mentioned, this part is much shorter than past updates on account of my eagerness to reward your faithfulness in reading and reviewing, and for that I apologize profusely. I'm hoping desperately that I will have a final installment for you all just after New Years, and that it will be much longer and "meatier" (if you will excuse the term) than this one. **

**Thank you all again for your continuous support, and happy holidays!**

George awoke with a start when the limo halted just outside the venue at which they would be playing the show and participating in the press conference, for there were countless screaming fans making quite a fuss about three incredibly dismal lads and their ailing younger mate, who was then looking around in an exceedingly groggy manner.

"We at the venue already, then?" he asked rhetorically, rubbing at his eyes and letting out a yawn. His voice had grown exponentially hoarser in the time he'd been asleep and no amount of throat-clearing seemed to be instrumental in changing that.

Mal exited the limo in order to check on security, as per the norm, and George tried to swallow back the tickle of a budding coughing fit that had surfaced in the back of his throat. Paul was watching him closely, noticing the look of pain that crossed the guitarist's face when he swallowed and the renewed shivering that was wracking that slender frame almost violently. At first, he was worried that George's fever was already on the rise again, but upon inspection he found no noticeable difference in the temperature of his skin.

"All right, George?" asked Paul after he'd finished feeling the young Beatle's face for sign of a rising fever. The musician in question had his arms wrapped around himself and was rubbing his biceps vigorously to generate some kind of warmth.

"'m bloody fuckin' cold," he responded, voice sounding small and croaky. He didn't like the think it, but the chances of being able to sing that night (whether he wanted to or not) were veering towards the slim side. _But then_, thought George, _having no voice is a better excuse than having no air, so maybe that isn't such a bad thing after all. _He cleared his throat again, this time just as a test, but found that he was still able to do very little about the state of his voice. "An' me throat's still hurtin'," he added.

"'e may not even be _able _t' sing," mused John, thinking just as George had. Eppy was trying to hide the disappointed scowl he wore, but everyone knew he wasn't at all pleased with this news. "Can ye' sing, Georgie?" John asked.

"Well I 'aven't exactly tried, now 'ave I?" grumbled George, coughing harshly into his fist.

"Try now, ya sod," ordered John almost affectionately, shaking his head just a bit. Paul obviously didn't much like the idea, but he remained quiet as George cleared his throat again.

Swallowing hard, the youngest Beatle opened his mouth and bashfully sang the first few lines to _Don't Bother Me _in a very weak, very gravelly version of his usual voice. His throat cried out in pain at the exertion, and each of the limousine's other occupants winced in sympathy when the sick musician was cut off by a series of agonizing coughs and quickly clapped a hand to his aching chest.

"S'pose that settles it," said John, feeling bad for having encouraged George to exert himself so. Paul was shooting the rhythm guitarist a fierce glare that spoke of familial protection over their youngest, and John's insides stirred with guilt he hoped would show in his response expression.

There was a tap on the window and all eyes turned to see Mal beckoning them from outside the limo.

"Ready, lads?" asked Brian, voice noticeably lacking its usual chipper note. Despite being perpetually exhausted from keeping up with the Fab Four and their affairs, Epstein usually strained to keep optimism present in his voice at all times in hopes of generating some cheer amongst the group. Today, however, it was obvious he'd lost all hope of raising the lads' spirits.

The Beatles clambered out of the vehicle and into the awaiting chaos, George still shivering and rubbing at his chest in extreme discomfort. The walk from the limo to the door was a mercifully short one and so the lead guitarist was not exposed to the shrill sounds of disorder for long, but immediately upon entering the building the Beatles were ambushed by the waiting press despite there being a conference only a short while away.

"What do you boys think of New Jersey?" one reporter probed, indecently shoving a recording device in John's face.

Another demanded, "Just how sick is George? Will he be playing the show tonight?"

"Is the rest of the tour in danger?"

Paul was flashing the throng of press charming smiles, but blatantly ignoring their questions as the band had been conditioned to do. Eppy announced, "The Beatles will answer many of your questions at the press conference. In the meantime, we must ask that you please make your way to the conference room."

Taking this as their cue, some of the security guards stationed inside the building approached the crowd of reporters and began ushering them towards the aforementioned conference room while Brian led the Beatles down a corridor, supposedly to their dressing room.

Feeling flustered, George followed as closely behind Ringo as he could, his breath coming in shallow gasps and his frame still wracking with the force of his incessant shivering.

"'ow long's this press conference gonna be, eh?" asked John of Eppy, calling ahead from where he trailed after George. He was growing more and more convinced that they should talk the youngest Beatle into reconsidering his decision about the show. The bloke couldn't even breathe properly, never mind remain upright and play the guitar for a solid half hour.

"We'll try to make it as brief as possible," reported Epstein. "The press won't be happy, but they know already that George is ill and needs to preserve his strength for the show."

"I really don't think 'e should be playin' the show, Eppy," Paul commented, peering over his shoulder at George. "'e's not well and oughtta be gettin' as much rest as 'e can." George could hear them talking about him clear as could be, but he didn't care to comment himself. By that point, he hardly cared about the damned concert and press conference. He was feeling so incredibly knackered that he would just as soon sleep straight through the remainder of the day as perform a bloody concert.

"We'll talk about this later, Paul," was Brian's coarse reply.

The group arrived at the dressing room and all four gloomy Beatles watched on as Brian unlocked the door with a key provided by the venue owner on their way in. The lock clicked, and Eppy led the way into the room with Mal and the Fab Four trailing behind, each harboring individual negative feelings in regards to the approaching events, ranging from Ringo's compassionate concern to George's full-blown dread.

Immediately upon entering, George made his way over to the couch and fell onto it exhaustedly and unceremoniously while Paul followed suit with John and Ringo directly behind him. Soon, all three healthy Beatles were seated by their ailing friend and bandmate while Brian towered over them with a look of unmasked concern twisting his face, his usual businesslike persona melting away to make room for a gentler counterpart. "How're you feeling, George?" he asked.

"Like utter shite," groused the lead guitarist, voice gruff. "'m about fuckin' ready fer this bloody day t' be over."

"Hear, hear," declared Paul solemnly.

"Come now, boys, there's no reason to be so sullen," expressed Brian, eyes trailing from each Beatle to the next. "After the press conference Neil will have some food for you, and then you'll be free to relax until the concert."

"'m not very hungry," admitted George. "'m bloody knackered, though. Can't wait to catch a bloody kip before the show."

"Ye've gotta eat, Georgie," said John. "Doctor's orders."

"What sort of order is that?" griped George. He really wasn't hungry, but he also wasn't _that_ opposed to eating something. It was more that his extreme tiredness was the predominant matter on his mind and he couldn't imagine putting off the release of sleep for a meal.

"Seein' as ye' fainted from malnourishment this mornin', I'd say it's a bloody good one," Paul pointed out, causing George's eyebrows to furrow. "Not sure if you can remember through the fever haze," said the bassist, "but ye've neglected t' eat since ye' fell ill."

"Not entirely," George vied. "'m not a bloody fool. At least I _tried_ t' eat somethin'."

"Apparently not 'ard enough," contended Paul.

Sensing the mounting tension, John allowed his gaze to dart between the two musicians as if watching a tennis match. "If yer goin' t' fight, could ye' take it into the hall?" he interjected, wishing to prevent the matter from escalating further. George wasn't up for it—nor were any of them, really—and the absolute last thing they needed to top off the day was a battle of the wits. Least of all when nobody had quite all of their wits about them.

John's interpolation snapped either musician out of whatever frustrated trance they'd both fallen under, and both looked apologetic.

"'m sorry, Georgie," confessed Paul. How many more times that day would he have to apologize for a lashing of exasperation? He was growing rather tired of hurting his mates' feelings. "'s not fair of me to get angry with you."

"'s all right." George cleared his throat, voice still regrettably feeble. "'m sorry 'm so difficult," he said, coughing into his fist. "I just don't want t' let anybody down."

"Anybody who'll be let down by you takin' care o' yerself isn't somebody ye' oughtta be worryin' about," Ringo opined, chiming in for the first time during the discourse. "Ye' need t' be lookin' after yerself first, Geo."

"I know," allowed George, sniffling. He did know that, but knowing it and acting on it were two entirely separate matters. It was so much more difficult to take care of himself than it was to talk about taking care of himself, for as tired and ill has he felt and as much as he longed for an escape from the fame, he couldn't imagine taking it easy for a change. Not when they'd worked so hard for this level of success and certainly not when there were so many people who would be saddened if they were to take a break.

"Ye've got t' give yerself time t' heal, laddie," John said, expression uncharacteristically gentle. "Better t' take a day off now than a month off when ye've gone and got yerself hospitalized!"

"Yer right, lads," said George truthfully. He agreed with them. He really did. "'m sorry."

"I hate to cut this short," interposed Brian, looking sincerely apologetic, "but it's time we head down to the conference room. After that, we'll talk very seriously about a day off." He didn't like the idea of a break, of course, but the group knew that he really did care very deeply about the four of them. He just couldn't help being a businessman at heart. "Come 'ead now."

The Fab Four climbed to their feet and trailed after Eppy in the direction from which they'd initially come. George, while steadier on his feet after that short rest, was still feeling decidedly tired and his throat was positively aching for reprieve from its unremitting soreness. Every time he dared to swallow past the lump in the back of his throat he felt a new rush of pain grip him, and he no longer knew how he was even meant to speak at this press conference. The very act of raising his voice above a hoarse whisper was downright painful and hardly effective when he had very little voice left anyway.

The lead guitarist's shivering had subsided some in the time they'd spent chatting in the dressing room, and so at least he wouldn't look so foolish right off the bat. Of course, it wouldn't take long for the very sound of his voice to muck up the illusion of strength anyway…

"Those reporters aren't expectin' me t' talk, are they, Eppy?" asked George, quickening his pace to match the manager's just so that he'd be near enough for Epstein to hear his voice.

"They know that you're ill, but they do not know the extent of it," replied Brian competently. "I'm sure that the issue of your health will arise at some point, at which time one of the other lads can feel free to speak up on your behalf." They were drawing nearer to a rather large door, behind which many voices were resonating. "You can answer if you're feeling up to it, but they'll understand that you need to preserve your voice, so you need not speak if you do not see fit."

George simply nodded in response, throat aching, and fell back in step with Paul.

"Feelin' up t' this, Geo?" inquired Paul softly, fixing the lead guitarist with a compassionate stare. "Y'know, Eppy says ye' need t' make an appearance, but if ye' start feelin' bad you can get Mal t' take ye' back to the dressin' room."

Again, George nodded, and John patted the youngest Beatle on the shoulder supportively. Ill as he felt, George really was reassured to know that he was not alone. There was no doubt in his mind that the others would waste no time before helping him out of a situation if the need were to arise, and it was with that confidence alone that he was able to bring himself to enter the conference room behind Eppy.

Countless chattering voices reached George's ears and his stomach rolled anew despite having no food left to bring up. He swayed a little, and he felt his face blanch and a hand squeeze his shoulder and urge him forward toward a row of chairs and a table strewn with microphones. The press quieted just a bit when their eyes landed on the four Beatles, and George thought he might vomit.

The group approached the table and George was relieved to see another familiar face in the room of strangers, this one belonging to Neil Aspinall who stood dutifully by the table and directed each Beatle to his respective seat.

"How're you feeling?" Neil questioned right by George's ear while the lead guitarist was taking his seat between Ringo and John.

"Awful," George admitted, voice straining to be heard above the noise even with Aspinall so close. "Think 'm gonna be sick again."

Neil grimaced gravely, patting George on the shoulder. "Well, feel free to give me a signal at any time if you have to leave," he said. "Brian's already told me that I can take you back to the dressing room should the need arise."

"Ta," replied George, propping his elbow up on the table and using his hand to shield his eyes from the camera flashes attacking his retinas. Neil gave his shoulder a squeeze and then departed to whisper something to Paul, then Ringo, and then John. George could only assume that they were talking about him, but he couldn't really care when nausea was ravaging his stomach and his chest ached too terribly to permit a normal breathing pattern. He felt like he could faint.

A voice spoke loudly, saying something about quieting down so that the press conference could begin, and silence fell over the room. George thought that he should probably look more alert, and it was with a great deal of trouble that he managed to pull his protective hand away from his face and sit up straight all on his own.

Someone was called on, and their voice cut through the virtual silence: "Welcome to New Jersey, boys!"

"Thank you!" the four Beatles chorused, one voice decidedly lacking gusto.

The same reporter spoke again: "I'd like to start off by asking how your flight over was and also what you think of Atlantic City so far." George had no intention of answering any questions throughout the press conference, and these unoriginal questions were no exception.

"The flight was very quick," said Paul charmingly, though this was not exactly the case. It'd actually felt like they were in the air for ages, given that his thoughts had been overcome by worry for George, but it probably had been a rather short flight in actuality. He chose not to say any of this aloud, of course, in favor of upholding his charming reputation. "And Atlantic City is great! Very beautiful city."

They'd seen almost nothing of the city and so far it had been nothing but bad to them, but still Ringo agreed, "Yeah, it's a really nice place."

"Have you had a chance to do any sightseeing?" asked another reporter, this one female.

"Sightseein'?" queried Paul. "No, not really. We spent most of the afternoon in the 'otel, but we _d_id get see a good bit of the city on the drive over here."

"I saw Ringo this mornin'," deadpanned John. "It wasn't such a great sightseein' experience, t' be perfectly honest."

People laughed, and then another voice spoke up: "It was said this morning that one of you had fallen ill. What does this mean for the show tonight, and for the rest of the tour?"

All three healthy Beatles directed their gaze towards George, who was looking exceedingly unwell with his face drained of color and his eyes dull and framed by dark circles. It was obvious he was having trouble sitting up straight, and he was visibly struggling to breathe. It was a wonder he was even still conscious.

"Yeah, uh, George's ill," John announced, being the first of the Beatles to recover from the shock of seeing their friend in such a state. "As fer the show and tour, we don't rightly know at this point."

"We're takin' it one step at a time," Paul affirmed. "We'll see how quickly 'e starts feelin' better."

"Just how sick is he?" inquired a female reporter, and none of the Beatles knew exactly what to say. The truth was that none of them quite knew anymore. The doctor had said it was the flu, but the three of them couldn't bring themselves to believe that when George was so obviously suffering just in the act of bringing air into his lungs.

As the female reporter stood waiting, the youngest Beatle was blinking and rubbing at his eyes as if staying conscious was a struggle, and Paul had to look to Eppy for assistance in responding.

Taking Epstein's nod as a sign that he was allowed to tell at least part of the truth, Paul stated, "'e's been very under the weather, but with some rest and such 'e should be fine."

"'e's not carried in the plague, if that's what yer askin'," joked John.

The crowd laughed, and George tried to stifle a coughing fit in his fist while Ringo rubbed his back with an expression of deep concern. The guitarist had taken all his medication, but still he continued to suffer. The only things he seemed to be rid of were the worst of the fever and his ear and head pain. If anything, his other symptoms had only _worse_ned since they pumped him full of drugs.

George managed to stop coughing before the crowd stopped laughing, and yet another question rang out from the crowd of press. "How are you feeling now, George?" asked a reporter, looking almost genuinely concerned. George could only assume she'd seen him coughing up a storm.

"No too terrible," lied George, voice frail. "Doctor's got me on medication, so I'm not feelin' as bad as I _could_ be."

"Do you think you'll still be playing the show tonight?" someone asked. George wished he'd made one of the others answer that last question, for he had a feeling he was about to become very interesting in the eyes of the nosy press.

"Absolutely," George enunciated as best he could with his voice so terribly hoarse. "They'd 'ave t' tie me down t' stop me from playin'."

"Do you think you'll have to cancel any show on account of your health, George?" a reporter half-shouted, making George flinch just a bit. His head still hurt just enough for the pain to flare up at this sudden sound fluctuation, but he was hoping the others wouldn't notice his pain. Unfortunately, they did.

"As I said earlier," Paul cut in, coming to George's rescue, "we're takin' it one step at a time."

Paul's swift intervention brought both Neil's and Mal's attention to the matter of George's worsening condition, and before the lead guitarist could even process what was happening it was announced that he needed to depart in the interest of his health. The press seemed disappointed, of course, and the other Beatles were beyond concerned, but George's heart felt pounds lighter at the promise of an escape.

It was Neil who escorted George back through the winding corridors that led to their dressing room, and he was thankfully silent throughout the entire trek as if sensing that George did not feel up to talking. Within minutes, the two were locked safely away from the fans, press, and venue staff, and George immediately settled down on the couch for a quick kip.

**Again, many thanks and I hope you all enjoy the remainder of the holiday season!**


End file.
